


37. You have my word.

by KittenKin



Series: Drabble Prompt Fills [11]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-18
Updated: 2020-01-18
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:47:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22307419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KittenKin/pseuds/KittenKin
Summary: Sherlock has a blind spot, but luckily John is there to provide perspective.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Drabble Prompt Fills [11]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1605655
Comments: 7
Kudos: 98





	37. You have my word.

“Ha!”

The bark of laughter is pure unadulterated scorn, strong, bold, bitter and yet somehow warm and comforting. If John’s scoff had been coffee Sherlock would have gulped it down and asked for a second cup.

“That’s a good one,” John huffs. “You’ve told me more lies than truths, even if I add all the half-truths into whole ones!”

“Not true,” Sherlock protests, though he’s a little distracted by the concept of mathematics to measure trust being built and broken.

“Sherlock, one of the very first things you told me was that you play the violin when you’re thinking and that sometimes you don’t talk for days! But you talk at me incessantly, even when _I’m not here_ , and–”

“It was true at the time,” Sherlock interrupts. “Before you moved in. I went forty seven days once without speaking. Mrs. Hudson finally bullied me into a response or I might have gone longer.”

John is staring, that mix of fond and frowning that makes Sherlock irrationally afraid that this unassuming soldier will look at him - look _up_ to him - too much and someday, see one too many imperfections or decide that it’s giving him a crick in the neck that’s just not worth it anymore. That _Sherlock’s_ not worth it.

“Besides, I _do_ play the violin when I’m thinking,” he adds a little lamely, knowing it to be a pathetic flourish at the end of his rebuttal. But John smiles soft and sweet, setting Sherlock’s pulse aflutter.

“No, you don’t,” John says. “You play when you’re _feeling_.”

Sherlock startles, flushes, looks away. His ears burn and his chest constricts, and he wants to smile and cry and ask for a hug.

He reaches for the Strad, then startles all over again as he realizes what he’s doing. A furtive glance over one shoulder reveals John grinning fit to burst, and the doctor gestures to the violin case as he sits down.

“Go on, then. Play us something.”


End file.
